The Downward Spiral
by crackedradio
Summary: In which Heather lives, dies, is reborn and dies again although not necessarily in that order.


**Prompt: **#62 Death, #97 Writer's choice [Rebirth]  
**Characters/Pairings:** Heather Poe, the Fledgeling/PC, Dr. Malcolm, various OCs and a brief cameo of Ash Rivers; HeatherxPC in later chapters  
**Warnings:** Dark!fic, graphic descriptions of violence and gore in this chapter. You might also want to avoid the later chapters if you have triggers for abusive relationships, mind-control and dub-con.  
**Notes:** Lyrics by Sheryl Crow. Much, much thanks goes to Panthera from a certain German fic archieve for explaining to me what usually happens in emergency cases in hospitals (who has a hand in treating the patient, who schedules the release, etc.).

Even more thanks go to my lovely beta Mrs. Muddlewait for her advice, suggestions and corrections. Any credit for the hospital scenes (and the story on the whole) not being a godawful mess goes to her. Thank you very much :)

**The Downward Spiral  
Rebirth  
**

**[Prologue]**

By all means and measures, Heather Poe had been born extremely lucky. Her parents had loved each other and her very much, had given her a stable home and were saving up money so that she could pursue her dreams like they never had been able to. Her grandmother was a kind, elderly woman that brought joy into Heather's life (her grandfather had died peacefully in his sleep after a happy, fulfilled life of 86 years). Their neighbors knew them as the picture- perfect family. They whispered: _What a happy family, why can't we be like that?_

What Heather had loved most about her parents had been those quiet evenings when they were sittings at Heather's her bedside, reading a book to her while occasionally throwing glances at each other that said: _I love you._

Heather's parents died in a car accident when she was twelve. That was also something Heather remembered all too well – the sight of her parents bloodied and silent and unmoving. Heather hadn't seen her mother's face, but she remembered her father's all the better. His face was turned in her mother's direction, his eyes were open.

_All I want to do is have a little fun before I die/Says the man next to me out of nowhere_

Her father had been looking to the right, facing her mother. Half of his head was still turned rightward. Only half of his skull was turned to the right. The other was splattered over the steering wheel and the radio (that somehow survived the frontal car crash undamaged and was blasting overly cheerful pop music). His eyes had been open. The dead, glassy stare haunted Heather's nightmares for years.

_All I wanna do is have some fun…Until the sun comes up over-_

All Heather could do was stare numbly at the wreck that still contained her parent's corpses when the paramedics checked her over. They had whispered to each other, all hushed and quiet, throwing pitying glances at the little girl. They whispered: "_She got lucky, to survive that."_

But in that moment, Heather certainly did not feel lucky. Not back then, not later, not ever.

But yet she was, even if she couldn't see it. Her entire life had been a matter of luck. Having a loving family, not being poor, all the other little ways she had been born lucky and took for granted. Even though her parents had died, even though she had witnesses witnessed it, she was lucky.

She would not be alone in her grief. Her grandmother would take her in and they would grief grieve together and comfort each other and eventually, they would move on.

Her life did not end that night.

Heather Poe had been born lucky.

_-Santa Monica Boulevard._

But luck had has the tendency to run out one day. And almost ten years after her parents' death, hers finally did.

**[Death]**

For once, it was _not _raining in Santa Monica. This was actually not a good thing because if this particular October night had not been so beautiful, none of the following would have ever happened.

What happened was: Heather Poe had visited her old friend Jamie who was living in the outskirts of Santa Monica. Usually, Heather would have taken the bus or asked Jamie for a ride home, but when she stepped out of the building and saw the beautiful night sky, she decided to walk home instead. It was quiet and this neighborhood wasn't all that dangerous, so it was unlikely that anything would happen to her, right?

In the same moment Heather decided to walk home and not take the bus, a man –let's call him John Doe - decided that he wasn't actually all that drunk; he only had a few two beers. And some wine. And a few cocktails. And beers. And more wine. And some other stuff. But he wasn't drunk, really. Totally. So driving a car instead of taking a taxi was a sane, save safe and all around _fabulous _idea.

Heather Poe and John Doe met at a crossroad. Or more accurately, Heather Poe met John Doe's car. John did the honorable thing when he saw that he had hit a pedestrian: He fled.

(Incidentally, John Doe also met Ash Rivers that night. Or more accurately, John Doe's car met Ash River's car. It wasn't pretty. Not that John cared after the impact had splattered his brain all over the car.)

**[Rebirth]**

She was going to die.

That had been Heather's her last conscious thought before everything went black, then white, then black again; her "sleep" engulfed by the sound of sirens and the beeps of machines and the shouting of people around her.

_("MVA. Female pedestrian, early twenties, versus hit-and-run driver. Multiple fractures. BP 90 over 60.")_

And when Heather woke up, she was all alone amid the noise, in a cave of blue curtains with only a beeping machine and abandoned with only the pain in her abdomen to keep her company.

_("We need her get into surgery and find that bleeding." – "Can't. No room and the surgeons are -"_)

She cried and whimpered and begged for her life or at least her grandmother, and god would it have made her feel pathetic, but right then she did not care and no one heard her, anyway. She was going to die, alone and forgotten.

Heather Poe was going to die.

And in-between, her world was going black-white-black again; she was slipping in and out of the waking world.

She dreamed.

She dreamed of angels without wings that night. Angels that took her to heaven then to hell, angels with black eyes and even blacker claws, angels that ripped her opened, tore her apart and devoured her insides. It _hurt._

But she also dreamed of an angel in rags that came to rescue her from them, that dragged her away, that held its wrist to her mouth and spoke: _"Drink, and be reborn."_

And drink she did_._ It tasted a little like heaven, a little like hell and it took all the pain away, mending her broken flesh, her broken bones, her broken _everything, _slowly but surely. Her vision cleared, the haze of pain faded.

Only then could Heather move up enough to take a look at the angel's face. Its face was illuminated by a bright, stained, flickering halo. What Heather saw was a face so beautiful (to her) that it defied all conventional descriptions of beauty. It was unnatural.

The angel smiled at her. A part of Heather felt nothing but adoration. And another part of her felt nothing but fear.

The angel left. A part of her wanted to make it stay. Another part of her was just glad that it was gone.

_("Drink and be reborn.")_

Shortly after, the dream ended and once again all went – and this time stayed - black. But there was no pain anymore this time.

* * *

All that was left of Heather's dream in the morning was the taste of copper in her mouth.

* * *

At some point between Heather's the "dream" and dawn, the Heather was transferred to surgery. At that point, she was supposed to become Dr. Rachel Turner's patient.

This was significant in so far in that Rachel was supposed to take care of Heather and keep her from dying until they could take her to an ER. This would not have been a problem at all if a) anyone had remembered that Rachel's shift had not yet started when they assigned her to the patient and if b) someone had paged her. Which nobody did.

Everyone thought someone else had told Rachel. Nobody had.

So when Rachel finally found out, it was all thanks to Dr. Malcolm and quite frankly, Rachel would have preferred not to find out thanks to Dr. Malcolm, because she could imagine a lot more fun things than running into a furious Dr. Malcolm ten minutes after she had arrived. Especially when she remembered that Malcolm's fury was infectious, meaning that when he had a reason to become this angry, Rachel soon would have one, too.

Dr. Malcolm's rant began with "Why aren't you in surgery?", "Why are you _here_?" and "Where were you?". After he'd given Rachel an earful in front of half the hospital staff and went downhill from there until he nearly dragged her to the ER, all while ranting and giving her a rundown of the facts _("The woman got hit by a car – organ rupture - Could have bled out in the fu…in the hospital, just because we are so understaffed")._

She really could have done without getting an earful in front of half the hospital staff, thank you very much. After a while Rachel finally got the chance to explain herself, but instead of taking the anger out of him like she had hoped, he only got angrier ("_What do you mean, you weren't part of the emergency service tonight_? -_What do you mean, no one told you? –What the hell is __**wrong **__with this hospital?"). _

To be honest, though, she didn't blame him.

A patient was dying – might be or even was already dead - because this shit-hole was understaffed and the staff they _did_ have was too stupid to properly communicate.

Yeah. That was a good reason to be pissed off.

Rachel felt guilty. She could have saved this patient, but it was probably too late. Although she told herself that the whole thing sure as hell wasn't her mistake, she couldn't help but feel guilty. She knew it was irrational to feel responsible. It didn't help. Didn't help her, and it sure as hell didn't help that poor patient - but the guilt ate away at her anyway. This was the first time someone had died on her shift.

Well, more or less.

So when they arrived at the ER and were preparing themselves for entering the OR, she braced prepared herself for the sight of a corpse.

Everyone in the OR looked either confused or nervous. Only one of them – the anesthetist - spoke up: "Dr. Malcolm, the patient is…I think you should take a look at this."

The others made room for them and Rachel got to take a good look at Ms. Poe. She looked horrible – bruises littered covered her body; there was blood everywhere. But the bruises were light and the blood was not fresh. On closer inspection, the wound on her stomach was a lot smaller and shallower than Dr. Malcolm had said it was, her breathing was even. But the strangest thing was that the wound was getting smaller with every moment, all by itself.

"Her vital signs have stabilized," said one of the nurses, looking confused.

Dr. Malcolm stared for a moment. He stared at Rachel and Rachel stared back, followed by them staring at the patient.

Then they decided to take matter into their own hands, not believing what they were seeing.

* * *

As it turned out, there was no organ damage to speak of anymore. Actually, there were no wounds at all to speak of anymore. All of them, all the cuts and bruises had healed right under Rachel's eyes. It was a goddamn miracle.

Rachel couldn't help but wonder if the whole thing was supposed to be a joke, but then she saw the stunned look on Dr. Malcolm's face and that he had suddenly become very pale. If it was a joke, Dr. Malcolm sure as hell wasn't in on it.

An unspoken conversation took place between her and Malcolm. It was apparent that Malcolm was thinking the same thing as she did and what they thought was '_Oh, fuck no, not one of _those _cases.'_

Dr. Malcolm looked at her with hopefulness written all over his face, to which Rachel responded by shaking her head.

'_Oh no, not this time. It's your turn, doctor,_' she thought.

And clearly Malcolm got the message, too, considering the glare he shot her.

Then he looked at Rachel as if to say: '_Fine, I'll do it, but you make sure in the mean time that the patient is fine.'_

Malcolm turned to the nurses and said, "Let's get her out of the OR. Monitor her vitals, and make sure she's stable. Dr. Turner, You will all stay with Ms. Poe. Clean her up and take care of her, but don't do anything else until I return. Is that clear?"

Rachel nodded at him, wondering if it wasn't a waste of time and resources, considering how cases like _this _one usually ended…

"Good. I'll be right back – there is…someone I have to consult in this case."

Outside in the hall he shoved Heather's file chart into Rachel's hands and turned around and left, but not without saying:

"Ms. Turner, please read the file chart while I am gone. Read it very carefully, so that you can tell the difference between what the file chart says about the patient and what reality seems to say about the patient. Because I need to be sure that I am not, in fact, hallucinating."

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Inwardly, Dr. Malcolm cursed and questioned his own sanity. He had seen the girl when she had been admitted to the hospital. He had been the one to diagnose her, however rushed; he had assigned Ms. Turner to the case. The wounds hadn't been a figment of his overstressed imagination and neither was Ms. Poe's miracle recovery, which, quite frankly, was worse than just going crazy because of the stress.

Because her miracle recovery, with her life-threatening injuries healing right in front of their eyes without anyone laying a finger on her, meant that he had one of _those_ situations. He'd seen one during his residency at UCLA, just like this. Back then, they had had a case that mirrored the case of Ms. Poe – injuries that the patient by all means shouldn't have survived, healing on their own.

Of course, the hospital had started to investigate what happened – either the patient had been a genetic freak or…something else was going on. Something fishy. There had been rumors. There had always been rumors, of course, one more ridiculous than the other – like that the gang wars were caused by rivaling monster factions fighting for control over LA – so Dr. Malcolm hadn't paid them much mind.

Anyway, the hospital started to investigate, took blood samples, found suspicious video tape footage. It was all going along well, when the patient dropped off of the face of the earth.

Then people started to die. One by one, those involved in the case started to die under increasingly mysterious circumstances, all ruled accidents of course. The footage disappeared, too. A month later the patient came back - cut neatly into in several pieces.

Dr. Malcolm had received a strange message shortly after, a letter that detailed what exactly had happened to the people involved (with pictures) and that had told him to do as he would be instructed in the next letter if he didn't want to suffer the same fate. And Dr. Malcolm definitely did not want to suffer the same fate, so he did as he was told. He didn't ask questions.

Dr. Malcolm received messages with instructions ever since. When there was an oddball case like Ms. Poe's, he received a letter or a mail. All he usually had to do was to ensure that no one was around on a certain corridor at a certain time and the problem would solve itself. Of course "the problem solved itself" always meant that the person in question would simply…disappear, never ever to be seen again.

It was not surprising that he felt a twinge of dread when he opened his secret, hidden mail account to find that _they _already knew. But what he found was unusual:

"Don't investigate. Schedule Heather Poe's release for tomorrow. Make sure that they keep quiet.

-L"

That was…odd. No instructions to clear out a certain corridor at a certain time. It sounded like they were letting the patient go. Left her alone.  
Left her _alive._

Somewhere in his heart, Malcolm felt relief, more for the patient than himself.

And that was all he needed to know.

* * *

Rachel was hovering over Ms. Poe's sleeping form, examining her, not noticing when Dr. Malcolm arrived. He startled the crap out of her. God, she _hated_ it when he sneaked up on her.

"Schedule the patient's release for tomorrow," he said, staring at her in way that said _'don't even think about refusing'_.

As if she would or could refuse. They had to fool the nurses, keep up the pretense of normalcy. It was all part of the game, and by the end of it, Ms. Poe would be gone, like all the other odd-ball patients before. Rachel nodded.

Dr. Malcolm took that as a sign of approval and continued:

"Obviously, someone must have grabbed the wrong file chart. This," he said, grabbing the file from Rachel's hands, holding it high, "is not Ms. Poe's. It has been a rough and stressful night, for all of us – _someone_ must have gotten confused."

'_And I don't want anyone to tell me that I could have royally fucked up as Ms. Poe's doctor,_' mentally added Rachel. Malcolm's attempt to cover his own ass was so blatant that Rachel had to fight down the urge to laugh in his face.

Oddly enough though, for someone talking about a rough and stressful night, Dr. Malcolm looked rather relaxed. Relieved, even. It puzzled Rachel. It irritated her even more, and she was tempted to ask him if he had suddenly discovered his inner sociopath in the last few minutes. But now, she knew, was not the time.

Taking a look around, the nurses and assistants didn't seem convinced by what the good doc was saying. Of course not, the others were not that stupid. Stupid enough to forget to call Rachel when they needed her but not stupid enough to not have noticed the patient's self-healing wounds.

But the one thing they didn't need was for the others to start asking questions. Or to start gossiping about miracle recoveries. Both would be dangerous, for all of them. Malcolm knew that, too.

It was no incident that the next time he spoke, his voice had gone dangerously low.

"There is _no _other explanation. We got the file charts confused. And that is all there is to it."

What Malcolm said was bullshit. The others knew it, Rachel knew it, Malcolm knew it. What Malcolm was presenting them was the only explanation they could officially give, the only explanation anyone who had not been in this OR could believe. And Rachel knew that he was about to tell them why that explanation could cause them quite a lot of trouble, therefore providing everyone in this room with a good reason to keep their traps shut.

Malcolm cleared his throat.

"Now, we are facing a goddamn disaster. _This_ patient, as it appears, is perfectly fine - and we are all happy about that, of course – and there's no reason to keep her here, running up bills she can't possibly pay for care she never needed to begin with."

"But," he said rising his index finger, "although we know that this is the result of a honest to god mistake made because of our…less than ideal working conditions, I doubt that either Ms. Poe or her insurance company will be all that understanding when they see the hospital bill. Quite the opposite, actually."

The others still looked skeptical, though Rachel could see that it began to dawn on some of them where Malcolm was going with this.

"They will not believe any stories about Ms. Poe's ruptured spleen healing on its own. No sane person would," he had raised his voice, to make clear that this was especially important, almost certainly aimed at those that had seen the patient when she had been admitted.

"They will suspect fraud. They will investigate. If anyone of us tells them that the file charts got confused, well, they will ask where the _other _patient is and what happened to her. And how are supposed to explain _that_?"

"So an investigation is something none of us want that, do we?" he looked around, finding that most people in the room were shaking their heads, „because we all know that an investigation of any kind is going to result in this shit-hole, pardon, _hospital _being shut down and us losing our jobs one way or the other."

"I don't want that. You don't want that. Not because of a _mistake _like this. It's not worth it."

Now the cogs were really starting to turn in their colleagues' heads. Rachel could almost see how they were coming up with excuses – _the patient is fine, no harm done, why bother, why turn this into more trouble than it's worth…_

In the meantime, Rachel felt more and more tense. She was waiting for the inevitable.

Malcolm continued: "So let's do ourselves and Ms. Poe a favor, and pretend none of this ever happened. No one was hurt, the patient won't have to pay bills she can't afford, we all keep our jobs, everyone is happy. Dr. Turner and I will make sure that the hospital absorbs the cost for her care but we will need your help. And one of the best ways to help us is to never let anything I just said leave this room. _No _word of this to Ms. Poe."

He made pause, to let that sink in before he continued.

"Is. That. Clear?"

Most of the people in the room nodded with enthusiasm and those that didn't murmured things like '_yes_' or '_of course_'. Naturally. Malcolm had given them plenty of reasons to play along - only a huge idiot would voluntarily commit career-suicide over this.

But Dr. Malcolm apparently really wanted to make sure that everyone got the memo. He observed the people in the room, looking for any sign of dissent. The next time he spoke, his voice had taken on a threatening tone.

"Good. And if any of you even think about ever about telling anyone about this, I will ensure that you will never ever find work again."

Rachel knew as well as he did that what Malcolm would do to them was nothing compared to what _they _would do if word got out. Whoever the hell _they _were, anyway. Not that it mattered.

All that mattered was that they were satisfied.

Rachel had learned that from the example _they _had made of her colleagues back when she had worked in a hospital in New York City. Those photos still haunted her nightmares, and she knew that Dr. Malcolm had received his own set of similarly charming pictures. And although she sincerely hoped that this was not the fate that awaited patients like Ms. Poe, she did not believe it. She sure wanted to believe, it but couldn't.

That was why she had kept quiet – she wouldn't be the one who helped make this patient disappear. Not this one. Ms. Poe was Malcolm's and Malcolm's responsibility alone.

"Now that this is all clear – get back to work. We still have other patients to tend to."

He said that, and looked oddly…relaxed. The others didn't care, probably didn't even take note of it as they left the room. But it had bothered Rachel the entire time.

When everyone was gone, Rachel hissed: "So when and how are you going to sign the poor woman's death warrant?"

The corners of Dr. Malcolm's mouth went up slightly before he said: "I won't. We won't."

Rachel's eyes went wide: "_What_?"

Dr. Malcolm sighed, rolled his eyes, but in the end indulged Rachel anyway.

* * *

It took most of the next day to process Heather's release from the hospital. By the time Heather was ready to go, it was late afternoon.

Jamie had come by earlier and apologized for not giving her a ride home last night, obviously blaming herself for Heather's accident. Heather had told her that it was okay, that it wasn't her fault. And, um, that she would appreciate it very much if Jamie would take the keys to Heather's apartment and bring her some clothes because she could hardly go home in a hospital gown.

Jamie had agreed, left and returned shortly after with a fresh batch of clothing, promising to pick her up later, if Heather wanted her to. Heather had nodded with agreement and told Jamie that she would call her when she was ready.

Now, Heather was sitting on her bed, watching the sun set on the horizon, feeling anxious for a lot of reasons she couldn't quite pin down. It startled her when a nurse entered the room to bring her belongings, but she calmed down quickly, forcing herself to look the nurse straight in the eye.

Heather wasn't good at reading people at all, but there was something…suspicious or accusing in the way the nurse looked at her, something that hid behind a pleasant smile. But alas, Heather couldn't say what.

Meanwhile, the nurse grew visibly annoyed with being stared at like that.

"How are you feeling, Ms. Poe?", she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly, "is something the matter?"

Heather shrugged.

"Fine, I guess. A bit, um, tired."

Truth to be told, Heather felt a lot better physically than she had in years, though she didn't really feel like telling the nurse that, not when she looked at Heather with that scrutinizing, doubtful gaze. Mentally was another matter entirely. On the one hand, Heather felt unbelievably, incredibly happy, warm and fulfilled, and on the other hand she was chewing on her nails and hair like crazy, like the way she had back when she had quit smoking.

The nurse, though, didn't seem to take note of that. She did raise a delicate eyebrow at Heather's answer, sure, but she didn't make a remark. There was something…odd about the nurse's expression. Was it annoyance? Anger? Or was it guilt? But why would the nurse feel guilty? There was no reason for the nurse to feel guilty unless- oh. _Oh_.

Heather didn't remember much of last night, except that she had been in a crapload of pain.

But Dr. Malcolm and Dr. Turner had made it sound like she couldn't have felt much pain at all, because according to them, her wounds had been extremely minor. Which meant that either "_minor injuries_" hurt a lot more than Heather was used to, Heather was actually delusional or the doctors were lying to her, although she had no idea why they would do that.

Heather knew that it was a stupid idea more likely than not and that Malcolm and Turner likely were right, but she had to know. She had seen her clothes before, when they cut them off in the ER; the shredded, bloodied rags that were left of them. Heather wasn't stupid and that didn't look like a mild injury.

Of course it was still a dumb idea but she couldn't get it out of her head. Of course, it was perfectly possible that the morphine or whatever else they had given her had screwed with her brain. And really, would it hurt her either way, even if she was right? It wasn't like she could do anything about it anyway.

It was Heather's turn to ask now.

"How bad was it?"

She was trying to play coy, knowing full-well that she probably just made a fool of herself. The nurse didn't laugh, though. Instead she looked Heather straight in the eyes and bit her lips. Like she was feeling conflicted.

Heather took a breath, her fingers playing with the edge of her shirt.

The nurse closed her eyes and sighed. She shook her head, and then looked over her shoulder, as if she wanted to assure herself that it was truly the two of them. Not that Heather understood why.

"Goddammit, I shouldn't tell you this but…I have seen you when you were admitted, Ms. Poe." she whispered, still looking nervously over her shoulder. There was almost something funny about the way she kept observing the room as if she expected _someone _to jump forth from behind the curtains.

"Let's just say that it's a wonder that you are still alive and leave it at that."

Now that was an entirely different tone compared to story than she'd heard from Dr. Malcolm and Dr. Turner. But why?

"Why would they lie to me?"

And the nurse answered, without missing a beat:"They have their reasons. Not that I know what they are…"

Of course, the nurse probably _did_ know what their reasons were but Heather didn't think that the nurse would tell her.

Then the nurse added: "You are a very lucky woman, Ms. Poe."

Heather flinched. She had heard that before and she didn't like it the first time around.

The nurse continued: "Now please, let's stop talking about this. I am sorry, but I can't say any more."

And Heather nodded.

She didn't feel like talking anymore, anyway.

* * *

When Heather left the hospital, _finally, _the sun had fully set. Heather sat down at the nearest bus stop, basking in the light of the first setting stars and the moon. For the last twenty minutes, she had attempted to reach Jamie (Heather's cell phone had escaped the crash without a scratch, strangely enough), without success.

She took a look at her cell phone. Jamie still wasn't answering and probably wouldn't answer for a while. Heather sighed.

The bus it was, then.

She was chewing on her nails again, a frown stuck on her face.

Her questions had been mostly left unanswered; at least that was what she told herself to explain the feelings of confusion and dissatisfaction she felt. Well, that and (as she suspected) almost dying. But she also felt…thrilled. Happy and warm and fulfilled. Euphoric. Hell, if only she knew why though.

She imagined that this was what it felt like to be high. Really high, not that feeling of nausea and sleepiness she had gotten when she had smoked pot with her then-best-friend in her grandma's basement.

When she closed her eyes, a face briefly flashed before her eyes. It was the…thing out of her dream. The sight of it scared a part of her, but it also made another part of her feel even happier. Actually, Heather couldn't quite pin-point, even less describe what she was feeling.

"_Drink and be reborn."_

That was possibly the most stupid sentence in the most stupid, strangest and possibly morphine induced dream she ever had, but it fit. Somehow.

Yeah. "Rebirth" was the closest description for what Heather was feeling. A second chance. Heather looked up at the stars and smiled, somewhat. A stupid and cheesy idea, but it was the only one that fit, the only one that felt right.

A second chance. Heather intended to use it.

From now on, Heather Poe would live life to the fullest.

* * *

(Too bad for Heather that her life was not really hers anymore.)

* * *

There was nothing out of ordinary when Heather returned home. It was quiet in the apartment block but that was a given, considering that most of the other residents were elderly people enjoying their hard-earned retirement in peace.

Everything in her room was as she had left it, untouched and unchanged. It was the first thing she did – check if everything was still there, if she could return to normalcy and move on.

She ignored the local newspaper's articles about last night ("…woman survived the crash unscathed…") and threw it into the wastebasket with more force than necessary.

The second thing she did was to call her grandma, who had been worried sick ("I am fine, it's alright, it wasn't so bad…no, I am home now, I'll look that I visit you this weekend, okay?") and her friends, Jamie in particular ("It's ok, Jamie. Really. You don't have to apologize. I know how busy you are – no you don't need to come over, really…this Sunday? Fine by me.").

Nothing out of ordinary, just what anyone would do in her situation.

And what, one might wonder, did she do after that? She could prepare to change courses majors in college, or tell her horrible, creepy old asshole of a boss at the diner to go fuck himself – well, not quite, not literally, old habits like politeness died hard , but it was the thought that counted and her thought was "fuck you, creepy ex-boss".

She started to think about what she wanted out of life.  
Deciding, after a while, that she didn't know what she wanted out of life, but what she wanted right now. And what she wanted right now was a good book, some hot chocolate and a pizza.

By the time she came to that conclusion, the sun was shining brightly. But Heather wasn't tired. Not tired at all, even though she hadn't gotten any sleep.

She closed her eyes for a moment and the dream flashed before her eyes, even though she did not sleep.

A dream in which she was rescued by what she would like to call her 'guardian angel'. A silly fantasy (morphine did strange things to the mind), but one she liked to entertain.

There it was again, that strange feeling of warmth and happiness.

(It marked the beginning of the end).

* * *

Day one after her release from the hospital was fairly ordinary.

In the morning, Heather went to eat breakfast in her favourite little café just down the street. What was new was that she did flinch whenever a car passed by, though. She took an old brochure from her college with her and read it while she was chewing on a croissant. Her major, she realized, was not what she truly wanted to do but she had no clue what she wanted to do instead, either.

When she went home at lunch time, she called the college advisor and organized a meeting with him. After that, she went grocery shopping because she came to the conclusion that frozen burritos were not going to be part of her new life. No sir!

In the evening, she made dinner, ate, called a friend, talked with her for hours and continued to watch movies all night.

Nothing out of the ordinary. _Nothing_.

She didn't break several glasses just by holding on to them a little too tightly. The cuts caused by that didn't just heal all by themselves. It wasn't unusual or strange to feel fit after not having slept for more than twenty-four hours. It wasn't unusual to have your thoughts always go back to the same dream, repeating it in your head for hours. Wondering what the hell the painkillers had done to her brain.

No. There was nothing out of ordinary.

Nothing to worry about.

* * *

Day two was almost the same, same old normal life, except that she broke way more glasses and mugs than the day before, felt nervous and jittery all the time and was chewing her nails like crazy. She thought that she was craving cigarettes and sometime in the evening, she caved in and bought a pack, but it didn't help. It didn't make her feel any less nervous.

Nothing helped, and her thoughts kept wandering back to that stupid dream. Or hallucination. Or whatever the hell that had been.

What was wrong with her?

* * *

By day three, Heather stops thinking that there was nothing wrong with her, the fact that only now she was starting to get sleepy or that she accidently broke almost all her of mugs and glasses or that she is constantly chewing her nails, something she thought was the sign that she really needed a cigarette, except that she was now smoking her tenth cigarette in a row and she was still feeling like a nervous, itchy wreak.

And when she finally did fall asleep that night, the last days of no sleeping at all finally catching up to her, her dream, her silly, nice fantasy haunted her as a nightmare, vivid and vicious, a vision not of angels with tattered halos, but of strangers with cold skin, the pain in her abdomen, the liquid, the blood the stranger poured into her mouth, the fading of the pain and the rapture of joy and strength and love that followed, so much love for her savior watching her with cold, smiling eyes.

Long teeth and longer fangs, but Heather couldn't see the stranger's face. Her savior-monster-savior. She tried to reach out to him in her sleep, but she was paralyzed, she couldn't move, could only watch, while he fed her, blood in her mouth, so much blood, she was drowning in it, she was suffocating, but she needed more-

Heather awoke with a scream and a dry mouth.

* * *

By day four, she began to hunger. The nightmare haunted her all day and all night. And every time, another piece returns to the picture in her mind. She could remember the room now, that awful dirty, white room in the hospital. The stench of medicine mixed with the smell of her blood. She could almost remember her savior's face now.

It was like staring at a shattered mirror, some parts of his faze were distorted and others were clear as day. Like his eyes. His eyes scared her.

Eyes weren't supposed to _glow_.

* * *

By day five, the hunger and nightmares had almost driven her completely mad. She was tired, but couldn't sleep. Or at least couldn't sleep for long until she awoke with a scream, in cold sweat and with a dry throat. Thirsty, but it was a thirst all the water in the world couldn't sate.

Her nightmares were clear now; she could see every detail in the room, every line on the walls, every stain on the cellar, the rough leather beneath her. And most importantly, she could finally see her savior's face clear as day. It sported an ugly (beautiful, insisted a part of her) smile with altogether too sharp teeth, creepy even empty (gorgeous, glowing, powerful) eyes.

Now, Heather remembered everything from that night. The car had hit her full force, her insides had been torn up, and the hospital staff had left her in that room, no doc available to prevent a poor college student from bleeding out right in the godforsaken hospital.

But then, someone or something came. That…thing (that wonderful creature) had given her its blood. The thought had made her feel nauseous, until now. Now she didn't care anymore. She could still taste it on her tongue, distantly, a remembrance of something she craved, needed.

There is was not a single moment of lucidity for her on that day. She dreamed and dreamed and dreamed until she didn't know what was real anymore. She hungered. She thirsted.  
Her nightmares began to make room for other dreams, other visions, as vivid and vicious as her nightmares. Visions of her savior standing in front of a burning house, then another, at the top of an ivory tower made of steel and glass and concrete and underneath a great city's streets.

-and then she was back in the hospital room. There was Dr. Malcolm and there were the nurses and they were taking care of her like as they should have in the first place. They were nice and polite and offered her reassurances. Dr. Malcolm grabbed a scalpel and said "All will be fine".

All would be fine but he cut her stomach open anyway, leaving four neat little pieces of skin hanging off of her side and Heather began to cry.

"Hush," said Dr. Malcolm, "hush," as he ripped out her organs one by one-

And when her dreams and nightmares and visions finally ended, when Heather returned to reality once more, she laid on her back and stared up at the ceiling that reminded her just a little too much of the one from her memories of the hospital. She turned over, too tired to stand up but unwilling to be reminded of the hospital any longer.

Then, she began to sob and cry until her throat was hoarse.

* * *

On day six, somewhere, in the deep recesses of her mind, the New Heather Poe was born out of her hunger and her memories. And the New Heather Poe was the little voice in good old Heather's head that told her what to do, that she had to find her savior. That she needed him, that without him the pathetic rest of the warmth he had shared with her would fade into nothingness. That without him, she was nothing.

The little voice in her head told Heather that without him, she was going to die. And she didn't want that, did she? To be alone and forgotten and cold and dead?

Good old Heather shook her head. No, she didn't want that, but what could she do? What should she do?

The little voice that was the New Heather Poe said to her, told her:

"You have to find him."

* * *

And on day seven, she takes the bus into Los Angeles.


End file.
